


"Ice in a Desert"

by Syntaxeme



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fear, Feels, Frustration, Implied Sexual Content, Resolution, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Romantic Tension, Sexual Content, Tension, Wine, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:32:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaxeme/pseuds/Syntaxeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>La Muerte and Xibalba haven't seen each other since his exile began. For both their sakes, Xibalba invites his wife for a visit. La Muerte, still wary after the first time he deceived her, is reluctant to give him the opportunity to do it again--but her desire to see him wins out nevertheless. The evening is spent dancing around the precarious state of their relationship, but they both know they can't avoid talking about it forever.</p>
<p>La Muerte is on the defensive. Xibalba is working to win back her trust. They're both looking for resolution, and one way or another, they'll find it by the end of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Ice in a Desert"

            “My dear—”

            “No.”

            “Mi amor, please—”

            “ _No._ ”

            “My _darling_ ,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Won’t you at least hear me out?”

            “I know you’ll try to deceive me, _my love_ , so no, I won’t.” She glanced at him sharply from under the rim of her sombrero, and the fire in her gaze made him swallow nervously. “There was a time when I trusted you, and we’ve both seen how you repaid me.” As she turned away this time, it felt so _final_. There was a moment of silence in which they both collected their thoughts, each deciding how to deal with the other. Of course, being exiled meant Xibalba couldn’t leave the Land of the Forgotten; he was only able to speak to her at all through an illusion that, as he’d gotten very good at doing, managed to sidestep the ancient rules of their agreement. Still, even this took quite a lot of energy to maintain, so he knew he had to work fast. His shadow form slithered to her side to try again.

            “I’ve changed, mi amor. I’m hurt that you doubt my every motive; won’t you at least let me explain?” He couldn’t touch her, which took away one of his more effective tools of persuasion, but his voice was still as smooth as ever. Between his pulling and her resistance, something would have to give.

            “Talk. Quickly,” she said, facing him but crossing her arms, yet another barrier between them.

            “You’re so cold! Have you not missed me at all? How long has it been since I’ve held you, mi amor? How long since I’ve felt your lips against mine?” It was very slight, but he saw something change in her eyes. His silver tongue had always been her weakness, particularly on the subject of their love. And he knew just how to take advantage of that. “Do you remember what it’s like here? All cold, gray stone, nothing like the colorful fiestas you so often host. Even seeing you now, all your vibrant color is muted. It’s hard to even imagine the warmth of your touch or the sweetness of your kiss—”

            “You should have considered that when you tried to cheat me in the first place!” she snapped, her adorning candles flaring brighter for a moment. Of course she missed him, too; even after centuries apart, her love for him had never faded, never dimmed. Seeing him then, hearing his voice, it was only more painful because he wasn’t there, and even his shadow couldn’t last for long. Still, she couldn’t let him know that, for fear that he would use it against her. So she held his gaze, unwavering, as she went on, “But you proved that nothing was more important to you than _winning your prize_ , no matter what it lost you in the process.” Her tone was so fierce, her words so passionate, that he felt weak for a moment. His image flickered, and in that instant, her reaction betrayed her: her face fell, and she reached out—only to pull her hand back and turn away from him quickly. Having seen the despair on her face, he smirked behind her back as his illusion stabilized. She was clearly on the edge already; another push, and she would fall for him again.

            “I only want to see you,” he said gently, moving to stand over her shoulder. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her shoulders, as if she were trying to keep herself from falling apart. Well, he did still have his trump card. Leaning down to speak into her ear, he added, “Please, _Catrina_.” Her body gave a powerful shudder as she heard this, and an audible sigh escaped her lips. Suddenly, her chest had turned so cold. He was the only one who had ever given her chills like that, just as no one else had ever made his heart burn the way she did. When she chanced a look back at him, she must have seen his smile. She frowned and waved his smoky form away, so he took the hint and let her alone. Still, he was confident that he’d gotten through to her. Confident, or perhaps desperately hopeful.

            La Muerte, meanwhile, was pacing about her palace, anxiously wringing her hands. How could it be that after all that time, he still knew all the chinks in her armor and managed to exploit every one in the span of just a few minutes? Ironically enough, it was the distance that made her more vulnerable; his absence had indeed made her heart grow fonder, so while she might have been able to hold her own against him before, her longing to be with him was becoming harder and harder to resist.

            And what did he want? That she should come to his realm…to stay? She couldn’t just leave her own realm without a ruler. Besides, spending any extended period of time in that much cold and darkness would surely take its toll on her…“vibrant” nature, as he had called it. Did he want her to free him to come and go as he pleased? That wasn’t even an option. Just for a night, then? That…that might have been plausible. She’d been so angry with him before that she hadn’t even _considered_ —all right, she had considered it a few times, but she had always had the strength of will to dismiss the idea.

            However, now that she’d seen him, now that he had sought her out, tempted her himself, expressed that he was thinking of her, too—she was having trouble convincing herself that she shouldn’t go. As much as she loved Xibalba, she knew he couldn’t be trusted. He had always been very good at feigning sincerity, and even if he _did_ just want to see her, should she present an opportunity for him to take advantage of her affections, he would undoubtedly take it. When she was in such a vulnerable state of mind, would she be able to keep her defenses up? Could she afford to take that chance?

**…**

            Considering the skewed passage of time that comes with death, it’s difficult to say exactly how long it was before Xibalba received an answer to his invitation. In terms of the living world, it was maybe a month—but for him, it had dragged on for what had seemed like years. He had all but lost hope by the time his answer arrived. And it arrived in the form of a trail of golden flower petals, up the stairs and through the corridors of his palace. There was a sudden spark of heat in his chest, and he followed the trail as quickly as possible, stopping short at the door to his own “living” chambers.

            Across the room, standing on the balcony that gave as impressive a view as the realm had to offer, was that long and slender vision of red he had missed so much. She noticed his presence immediately, and her body tensed as she slowly inhaled—but she didn’t turn to face him. She still needed just a moment to remind herself to be on-guard and not to fall for any of his tricks.

            “I’m…surprised to see you, mi amor,” he said. This was an understatement, although surprise was one of the many emotions tangled in the hollow of his chest at the time. His instinct, the desire he’d been unable to act on for so long, was to take her in his arms and kiss her breath away—but he didn’t dare. No, because this visit was a concession on her part, they would be playing by her rules; the last thing he wanted was to chase her away. La Muerte cleared her throat and turned toward him.

            “I brought you a present,” she said, gesturing toward his desk, on which there sat a bottle of wine and a pair of elegant crystal glasses. With a slight smile, she added, “It’s our favorite.” Her smile disappeared, however, when she realized that he hadn’t taken his eyes off of her for a moment. She turned her head downward to hide behind the brim of her sombrero as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

            “Thank you. You can’t imagine how hard it is to find good wine around here,” he joked. This forced _civility_ was just killing him. If she were angry, he would’ve preferred for her to say so; she was only more captivating when she was angry. But no, it seemed she was intent on maintaining her self-control and likely expected him to do the same. And where was the fun in that? It almost seemed as though she regretted coming; though she stood there in the same room, she was refusing to meet his eyes—or to even speak on her own! Hoping to at least spur a conversation, Xibalba hastened to uncork their wine and poured each of them a glass. She stiffened when she noticed him at her side, but she accepted the proffered drink. Their fingers brushed as she did, and she hesitated briefly before taking a rather large sip of her wine, as if it would help her escape the situation.

            “It’s so quiet here,” she said, resting her free hand on the balcony railing.

            “Yes,” he said. “It is.” He tried to keep a note of bitterness out of his voice; even if she heard it, she would show him no pity.

            “What do you do?” she asked, running her fingertip around the rim of her glass so that it made a quiet, bell-like sound. “Do you ever talk to the spirits? They must be so unhappy.”

            “They are. It makes for terribly dull conversation,” he answered between drinks. “By the time they come here, most of them have been dead for so long that they begin to…unravel a bit. If it’s any consolation, they’re not overly _aware_ that they’re unhappy.” La Muerte frowned down at his kingdom.

            “You don’t care at all, do you?” Realizing he had made a misstep, Xibalba tried to amend himself.

            “They aren’t conscious, my dear. Most of them can hardly remember life at all, because they’ve been so long disconnected from the living world. Once they forget who they were in life, they start to lose their grip on who they are altogether.” With another sip from his glass, he added casually, “It’s probably not something you haven’t had to deal with.” She scoffed at him and turned away, leaving his side to stride back into the room. She couldn’t tell whether he was genuinely trying to get a rise out of her or if he simply didn’t realize how dismissive he sounded. Either way, he _looked_ nonplused as to why she had walked away from him. He tried again: “Let’s talk about something arguably more pleasant. Tell me what I’ve missed in the living world.”

            “Things are…peaceful, for the moment.” In fact, it had gotten uneventful. Without him there constantly causing mischief, turning people against each other or making devious deals with hapless mortals, it was possible things were going _too_ well.

            “‘Peaceful,’” he repeated, following a similar train of thought. “Sounds terribly boring. You know, if you don’t give them a push now and then, they won’t make any progress at all.”

            “Progress like a war with a million casualties?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. He shrugged.

            “Life is a temporary thing, my dear, no matter how much you seem to enjoy your little pets. They all end up here at some point or another. Considering how little time they have, what point is there in wasting it on _peace_?” By nature, Xibalba was an instigator, whether it was between humans or even with his own love.

            “So they should use that time to end the lives of others instead? Or fill it with hatred?” she asked, frustrated with the constant conflict between their views on human nature. “Would that make it more valuable—or just more entertaining to you?” He was smart enough not to answer that question honestly, avoiding her eyes and taking another drink. Well, she hadn’t expected him to change; if anything, he was probably more jaded after being locked away for so long.

            “I suppose it’s a matter of personal preference,” he said. “Whether they’d prefer to live a long and complacent life or a short and extraordinary one. For instance: if I were given the choice, I would rather spend a year with you than suffer a thousand more alone.” Seemingly caught off-guard by his sudden sentimentality, she looked up to find him smirking back at her playfully. “You couldn’t have expected me to avoid the subject all evening, mi amor.” _Expected? No. Hoped? Maybe._

            “…something like that doesn’t have much weight coming from an immortal,” she said, seating herself on the desk, next to their half-empty bottle of Spanish Tempranillo. “You have no concept of what it means to have a limited lifespan.”

            “I was speaking hypothetically,” he mumbled, irritated with her for poking holes in his romantic logic. As he came back inside to meet her, he went on, “Let me put it this way, then: if you offered me dominion over the Land of the Remembered, I would refuse—”

            “That’s not true,” she said. Did he really think he could lie to her so blatantly and get away with it?

            “Let. Me. Finish,” he growled. He seated himself in the chair in front of her, and it took only a moment for him to slip back into the role of the charmer, his every word smooth and honeyed. “I would refuse, _if it meant that I couldn’t see you_. I would rather stay here, with the promise of even an occasional visit, than be anywhere else and know that I’m cut off from you.” La Muerte was biting her lip, staring down at the floor. He was _obviously_ saying these things to win her over, but whether she realized it or not, there was more truth to his words than he would’ve preferred.

            “It’s funny,” she said. “That you say that now, after you proved just the opposite in the past.” He visibly winced; why did she have to keep bringing that up?

            “I told you, I’ve changed. Given all the time I’ve had to _think_ about my bad behavior, don’t you think that’s possible?”

            “Maybe. But I don’t think it’s likely.” Noticing that both their glasses were getting low (due to both of them using the wine as a distraction), she picked up the bottle and divided the remainder between the two of them. “Besides…I never asked you to change.” As she pulled off her sombrero and tossed it expertly onto a chair in the corner of the room, he watched her with narrowed eyes. She crossed her legs, and he could see just the smallest bit of her pale ankles—no! He couldn’t let her distract him, whether she was doing it on purpose or not. Trying his best not to stare, he answered her,

            “Are you sure? You were very clear when you kicked me out that I was nothing to you but a liar and a self-absorbed cheat.” He remembered the conversation painfully well (if it could be called a conversation at all). “Or is that something you admire in a man?” In the middle of a drink, she held up one finger to pause the conversation until she could answer.

            “Don’t say that as if I could look for it in someone else,” she said, swirling her wine slowly and watching its legs drip down the sides of the glass. Curious, he leaned against the arm of his chair and cocked his head to one side.

            “What do you mean?” She shot him a glare, and he could’ve sworn fire blazed through his bones.

            “You tell me: are a short temper and sentimental attitude things that you value in a woman?”

            “Amor, to catch my eye, a woman only has to be one thing,” he said. Before she could get angry, he clarified: “You.” Her grip on her glass visibly tightened. She blinked at him pointedly, and he finally realized what she was saying. And they both took another drink. The tension between them was practically tangible. La Muerte stayed very still, focusing on defensively keeping close to herself in an attempt to counteract her heart’s aching to be near him. The longer she stayed, the worse it got, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. If she did, it would feel like leaving something unfinished; there had to be some kind of _resolution_.

            “When I see husbands and wives reunite in death,” she said abruptly. “It doesn’t feel like this.”

            “You said yourself that it’s different for immortals.”

            “That shouldn’t matter. I’m still your wife,” she pointed out. Just hearing those words, as simple as they were, gave him a sudden rush of hope.

            “What does it feel like?”

            “Relief. Like…the end of a prison sentence.” Her remorse was clear in her voice and on her face as she set her glass aside. “Or…repairing something that was broken. Healing a constant pain.” She didn’t have his gift with words, but this was the most specific way she knew to describe it. Now he was miserable with the knowledge that he wasn’t providing those feelings for her.

            “Did you come here expecting that feeling between us?” he asked.

            “…no.”

            “What does it feel like instead?”

            “Like ice in a desert,” she said, setting him back. That wasn’t quite the answer he’d expected. “Comforting—but temporary.” Again, his heart was conflicted, this time lingering between guilt and delight.

            “Do you regret coming?” She bowed her head, gripping tightly at the edge of the desk.

            “No.” If the tension was thick before, it was suffocating now. It was clear this was hazardous territory, and he could think of nothing that would be safe to say, _especially_ not his honest feelings.

            After several very long moments of silence, it occurred to him that his glass was empty. He stood and moved closer to the desk, reaching across his guest to set the glass down at her other side. As he did so, his free hand rested ever so casually on hers, and he heard her exhale as if the air had been knocked out of her. When he turned to look at her, they were both surprised at their nearness. La Muerte shut her eyes tightly, and her breathing was labored, as if she was exerting a great amount of effort. But for what? At this distance, it was impossible for him not to notice and recall in detail the shape of her lips and, as he leaned in closer, the saccharine smell of her skin. For the briefest moment, his lips brushed her neck, but her hands instantly met his chest to push him back.

            “No,” she managed, getting to her feet. “I…I have to go.” She seemed lost, searching around the room for her sombrero, desperate to escape.

            “What—why?” The conversation had seemed to be leading in the right direction; what did he do wrong? Her hands trembled as she reached for her hat, but he caught them instead, holding them steady in his own. “Wait. Tell me why you have to rush off so suddenly.” She was pulling weakly at his grasp, shaking her head.

            “Because I can’t…do this. I can’t trust you, and I don’t trust myself.” She said all this very quickly, finally tugging her hands out of his. Even as she replaced her sombrero on her head, she gripped the brim tightly and tilted it down to hide her face. She’d _known_ that no good would come of this visit. She’d _known_ she shouldn’t come. Yet she had, and she was quickly proving to herself that he had just as much power over her as she had over him. As she fled toward the closed door, he slithered around her to block her path.

            “It’s been six hundred years,” he said, moving to counter her any time she tried to go around him. “Are you going to keep pretending that I don’t exist?”

            “Oh, I _wish_ it were that easy,” she said. “It would be so much simpler if I could pretend you don’t exist, if I could live even one year without thinking about you. It _has_ been six hundred years, and it still doesn’t hurt any less, knowing you’re in one place while I’m in another.”

            “Then why, now that you’re here with me, are you trying to run?” he asked, equally frustrated and terrified at the prospect of losing her again. She stopped trying to escape and stood still, clenching her hands at her sides.

            “Because I know you. And I know myself. And I know how much I’ve missed you all this time….” There it was again, that fire in his chest that only she could light. Before he could reciprocate her feelings, she shook her head and went on, “And I don’t know if I can believe you when you say you missed me, too. After I’ve said all this, how can I stay and know you won’t use it against me?”

            “Listen to me,” he demanded. “Doubt everything I’ve ever said, any promise I’ve made to you, but _never_ doubt that I love you. I couldn’t lie about that if I tried—believe me, I _have_ tried. But if I think of you for even a moment, I know I’m fooling myself.” He reached up to sweep her sombrero off once more, his other hand sliding long fingers through her hair. Her eyes had fallen closed again, and she leaned into his touch. When her skin sparkled the way it did, it was difficult to tell whether he was seeing tears or just her natural radiance. Regardless, he held her closer, resting his forehead against hers. “Please. Tell me you feel the same.”

            A moment later, his wings were being pinned behind his back as he was pushed against the door. La Muerte’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, and her lips met his in a fierce and urgent kiss, one that was six centuries overdue. He almost felt faint from her sudden passion, but he held her tight against him and kissed her back, savoring her sweet taste on his tongue. Even a day was too long to go without that, never mind a century. When she had thoroughly ravished his mouth, the kiss broke, and both gods took a moment to catch their breath. Xibalba involuntarily tensed as her panting breath fell on his neck.

            “Te amo,” she said softly, never loosening her grip on him. “I’ve missed you so much.”

            “I know just how you feel, mi amor. But you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” His hand slid down the small of her back toward her hip, and her body shivered. Pressing her forehead against his chest, she let out a deep sigh.

            “Xibalba…mi vida, te deseo,” she confessed, and his heart jumped into his throat. It was true she had always been rather…aggressive in this area, perhaps partially because she knew it affected him so much.

            “Well. I appreciate that you’re finally being honest with me.” As hard as he tried to remain cool and suave, her touch was his greatest weakness. With the softness of her body pressed against his and her _saying_ that she wanted him, he was effectively disarmed. Her lips met his throat, and he let out a breathless chuckle. “Hmm~. You never have been one to mince words.” She noticed that he was beginning to have trouble standing up straight and felt a familiar sense of self-pride; she had always loved seeing him give in to her completely like this.

            Her fingertips trailed down his jaw to lead him to meet her eyes, and she kissed him very gently. With a long-perfected come-hither smirk, she disappeared across the room in a trail of golden petals—leading directly to his bed. Without a moment’s hesitation, he snaked across the room to join her. To his surprise, she pressed his shoulders down to make him lie on his stomach while she sat next to him, long legs curled up at her side. With a snap of her fingers, every light in the room went out—aside from her candles and her eyes, which cast a charming glow on her face. Anticipating a massage, Xibalba made himself comfortable and let out a blissful sigh. Could this possibly be any better?

            However, when her fingers began to walk up his spine toward his shoulders, he caught on to her real motives. “Oh no—mi amor, not there. It’s been so long, I can’t—ahh….” His words trailed off into an embarrassing whimper as her hand moved lovingly up the length of one of his wings. This was another weakness that seemed to amuse her.

            “Can’t what?” she teased. “I thought you _liked_ this, my darling.” She made no indication of stopping, letting her hands explore the dark expanses of his feathers while he failed miserably to regulate his breathing. By reflex (or so he would have said), his wings spread out to give her more freedom as he resigned himself to her whims. She had always teased him for being so sensitive in such a place, but that didn’t keep her from using it as one more method of pleasing him.

            “It’s…too much,” he mumbled, hands gripping at the blankets beneath him. “How…after all this time…how…?”

            “How can I keep you from forming a proper sentence?” she suggested helpfully. He tried to shoot her a look of irritation, but the effect was lessened when his eyelids fluttered and his head fell back to the bed. La Muerte decided to press her luck a little further and sat up to kiss the crest of his wing. Whereas a moment ago, he was completely relaxed, his body now went rigid, and he took in a choked gasp. There was teasing, and then there was cruelty; this action was on the border between the two. Still, she seemed oblivious to his slowly-bending self-control and kept it up, even bold enough to use her tongue. When she heard the sound that elicited and saw his shoulders hunch, she made the mistake of giggling at his reaction.

            _Fine,_ he thought. _If she wants to play dirty, we’ll play dirty._

            Turning back toward her, he grabbed her arm to pull her closer and pin her down to the bed. Her laughter didn’t fade as she reached up to stroke his cheek—but he took her wrist firmly in hand and pulled it away, refusing to let her manipulate him…for the moment. Her smile faded, and upon seeing the way he was looking at her—so intense!—she bit her lip and waited for her reprimand. But that wasn’t exactly what she got. Instead, his lips met her neck softly, too softly, as if he were slowly mapping out every inch of her skin. But at a moment like this, she didn’t want him to be “gentle.” As nice as it was, it wasn’t enough. She made a wordless sound of impatience, and he smiled against her skin.

            “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you not enjoy being teased, _Catrina_?” A deep moan was his answer, just the one he’d hoped for. Already, her heart was beating hard; he could feel it when his hands found their way to her chest. As he pushed her dress down off her shoulders, his teeth nipped at her skin, sharp and dangerous. This time, he was the one who got to be smug when she let out a high-pitched whine. “Hm. You didn’t think you would get to have _all_ the fun, did you?” When her dress reached the level of her chest, he paused briefly to glance at her and make sure he had her consent to move on. When she nodded fervently, he laughed again at her eagerness and slid the garment further down, crimson damask revealing stark white skin. Once her dress was completely off and lay, quickly-forgotten, on the floor, Xibalba took a moment to admire his wife in a way he hadn’t been able to for _far_ too long.

            “No,” she answered, pulling the tie from her already-mussed hair to complete her vulnerable image. After keeping her composure for so long, it felt nice to smile and laugh again, so she did, even treating him to a wink. “But I won’t settle for any less than half.”

            “Deal.” His fingers laced through hers to press her hands to the bed, and he caught her lips for another deep kiss. Her legs squirmed restlessly, and he held her still with his hips pressed down against hers to pull a shocked and muffled moan from her lips. Always hungry for more, she slid her leg up his side, pressing upward to meet him. Xibalba found himself breathless again and broke away from her lips to bury his face in her hair, one hand moving slowly up the outside of her thigh. La Muerte groaned in suppressed desire, growing unsatisfied with her passive position.

            With a surprising amount of strength, she pushed him off of her and onto his back, crawling up to seat herself on his hips, all but completely bare and scintillating in the dim candlelight. He could hardly complain about the shift. She hastily undressed him, removing any remaining barriers between them in her determination to be closer. The fire in his veins met the ice in hers, and the result was a torrid storm. Her long legs tangled into his; his hands moved down her spine or held fast to her hips; her back arched tightly to press her closer still.

            Whenever she begged, “bésame” or gripped the blankets hard and gasped, “más duro,” he complied without question. Their passion was forceful, even violent, but whether it was a bruising grasp on her hips or her nails digging into his neck, it was something to _feel_ , something to keep them constantly aware of the _reality_ of their liaison. There was a lot of lost time to make up for between them, but when they were both exhausted and curled up together under the sheets, still wrapped up in each other, they thought, _This is a good start._

            “Te amo, mi vida.”

            “Te amo, mi amor.”

            _“Buenas noches…._ ”

**…**

            La Muerte woke the following morning, still naked and buried in a bed that wasn’t her own. The light in her eyes brightened as she woke fully, and she reached for her husband with a smile—but he wasn’t there. Her smile vanished as she sat up to look around the room. He was nowhere to be seen.

            “Xibalba…?” No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t possibly. She clenched her jaw tightly to keep it from trembling, trying to blink away the prickling around her eyes. With a deep, shuddering breath, she tried again, her voice shaking with fear, “Xibalba?” Again, no answer.

            He could have gone out to survey the realm. He could have been keeping track of the new arrivals. He might have been working. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t he have woken her? No, it was far more likely that he had sensed an opportunity…and taken it, as he so often did, as she’d _known_ that he would. All the pain gathering in her core, her fear and sadness, quickly morphed into anger, and she shrieked, “ ** _Xibalba!_** ”

            Before the echo of her voice had faded from the room, and just as she was starting to allow herself to cry, her husband rushed through the door, looking frantic and horrified that he had upset her so. “Mi amor, what’s wrong? I’m here—oh. Don’t cry….”

            “You…where were you?” she demanded, refusing to let him comfort her and struggling to bite back her tears.

            “There was a rush of new arrivals while we were sleeping,” he explained. “I had to…take stock.” He knew it was a poor choice of words, but how else could he say it?

            “Why didn’t you wake me?”

            “I…I’m sorry, my love. You were so peaceful—it had been so long since I’d seen you that way…I couldn’t bring myself to do it,” he said, slowly and smoothly reaching up to stroke her cheek. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” La Muerte watched him for a moment more, unblinking, before letting her head fall against his chest, sniffling, trying to catch her breath.

            “No,” she said, shaking her said. “It isn’t…you did nothing wrong. All the time I’ve been here, I’ve been so suspicious, and you’ve…you’ve done nothing wrong.” She felt awful for doubting him so much that this would be her immediate conclusion. Was it possible he could have really changed? He wrapped an arm around her shoulders to hold her close, resting his chin on top of her head.

            “Will I ever regain your trust?”

            “I hope so,” she said honestly. “I don’t know. But I hope…I’m sorry, mi vida. I love you.”

            She lingered for some time, reluctant to leave him again after this fragile reparation of their relationship; she felt as if any slight shift would tear apart the bonds they had just reformed. But it was clear that she was uncomfortable staying in his realm for extended periods, so with his constant reassurance, she was convinced to return to her own dominion—with a promise to visit again soon.

            Once she was gone, Xibalba let out a heavy sigh and collapsed to sit on his bed. What had come over him? It was true that there had been a sudden influx of forgotten souls, but he couldn’t have cared less who they were. The thing that interested him with the prospect of a passage between the two realms being up for grabs. With La Muerte in the Land of the Forgotten, he had theorized that it would be easier for him to slip through. One god for each realm; he could have just taken her place. Yet…when he’d heard her scream his name, the fury and pain of betrayal in her voice…he couldn’t do it. Not just because she had found him out, but because the thought of hurting her that way again had stripped her warmth from his bones and left him feeling cold. Empty. He couldn’t.

            And that was a problem. Of course, he loved his wife. Desperately, unendingly, he loved her with his entire being. But he had never thought that would keep him from getting his own way. Maybe he would try again on her next visit. Or…maybe he would stay in bed until she woke, to see the sun rising in her eyes and the smile she reserved for only him.


End file.
